


Complications

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, La Chanson de Roland | The Song of Roland
Genre: Actually You Can Totally Imagine It's the Basques Attacking Charlemagne's Baggage Train, Because That's What Really Happened, Because the Roland-Poet Unfortunately Twisted History for the Sake of Crusading Propaganda, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Historical Inaccuracy, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, M/M, Middle Ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-08
Updated: 2007-08-08
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9873575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Shit hits the fan at Rencesvals, etc.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August of 2007.

Crowley blinked, stupefied, as if the deluge of blood in his eyes wasn't bad enough.  
  
"Wait, angel. They're sending _who_?"  
  
"Michael," Aziraphale muttered, quickening their pace through the undergrowth. Crowley's ill-sewn tunic sleeve was threatening to tear away in his grasp from beneath Crowley's armor. "The audacity! He'll get them _all_ killed."  
  
"Well, isn't that the plan?" Crowley asked, stumbling along behind the angel, secretly grateful to be clear of that awful place. The stones in the stream had been glossed with ominous red. "More or less?"  
  
"I was just about to ask you the same question," Aziraphale huffed, finally coming to a stop. Crowley smacked into him, their maille and helmets painfully clashing. " _Oof_. Really, Crowley, was that—"  
  
" _You_ bloody started to run," said Crowley, jabbing an accusing, gauntleted finger in the angel's direction. "Not me. And, by the way, your Mr. Tall-Stupid-and-Impetuous was bleeding out the _ears_ last I checked."  
  
Aziraphale blanched. "And his—you know—the other one?"  
  
Thin-lipped, still doubled over and gasping for breath, Crowley glared at him.  
  
"Oh dear," Aziraphale murmured, and sat down. "I couldn't have guessed—"  
  
"But you should have _known_ ," said Crowley, straightening. He gazed past the scraggly, low-lying pines and out to sea, a perfect dark mirror of what had been and what was yet to come. There would be no winners on the battlefield, not today.  
  
Aziraphale longed for a time before War had entered the hearts of man.


End file.
